


Smile For Me

by catsaremyboyfriend



Series: This Is Not A Harley Quinn Story [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-12
Updated: 2014-11-12
Packaged: 2018-02-25 03:58:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2607641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catsaremyboyfriend/pseuds/catsaremyboyfriend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I like killing off DC versions of Marvel characters in my stories, and vice versa, or whatever, because pain is good. In this chapter, Peter Parker dies.</p></blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Haha! Harley!, is dead. Dead dead dead dead _dead_. Got her neck snapped, hoo boy!, some nasty man tossed her in the river. Not, haha, not me. _Saaaaaaddddlllllyyyyy_. My pretty Harley looked like a teeny tiny drowned kitten. I gotta find another, ha, another pet.  
Haha, I’m, ah, getting kinda desperate. Y’see, I have a bit, a BIT, of a reputation around here, as, uh, as a _bad guy_. All I, hahaha, want is to make people LAUGH! Have a little, hoo ha!, _fun_. For my next trick, I’m gonna make some patients real happy.   
Cause a little mayhem, free, I mean, haha, SEE, some old friends. Haven’t visited Scarecrow in a few months, and poor, ha!, Ivy is without her plants. _Anywho_ , no one wants to hang out with me, but I, hoo boy!, I gotta replace Harley Quinn.

 

It takes six years. Six years in the mad house called Arkham Asylum. I celebrate my 24th birthday in a cell, arms in a strait jacket because I tried to kill my therapist when she mentioned Joker. The Joker is mine. He loves me, but she tries to make me forget about him.   
I sit slumped in a corner, muttering to myself. My greasy hair is plastered to my skull and I have a fresh cut on my cheek. The scars already there, the ones stretching my face into a permanent smile, are itchy. I rub my face into my shoulder, trying to get the feeling away.   
I look up when I think I hear alarms. They’re fairly common in the asylum, but I’m not sure if they’re real or not. Sometimes I hear things that aren’t there. The Joker’s laughter, his voice, people screaming, explosions. Mostly his laugh, though, taunting me as it echoes through the corridors. I close my eyes.

Someone is standing outside my cell. I can hear them breathing. My senses have gotten better after so much time spent alone. I don’t speak, choosing instead to lean farther into the wall. I’ve had so many people visit me, seeking the Joker’s bitch. Something rattles the bars of my cell. 

“Come _out_ , come _out_ , whatever you are,” he whispers. “What a, ha!, nice surprise. My little Quinn, all locked _UP_. A little birdie caught in a trap! It’s, hoo boy, it’s been a while, Quinnie. Did you, eh, miss me?” I crack an eye open, unsure if I’m simply hearing things. Joker is there, though, peering through the bars to grin at me.  
I’ve never hallucinated seeing him before. He hasn’t changed at all. The scars are just as vivid as I remember. His hair dyed green, hanging in his eyes, makeup smeared messily on his skin. Joker still looks like a demented clown prince. I struggle up and crawl to him on my knees. “They’ve, haha, got you in a straitjacket, Quinnie! Have you been a _bad_ girl?” 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I rasp, the last words I’d said to him at our trial, six years before. He reaches past the bars and cups my chin, thumb tracing my scars. 

“Smile for me, Quinn.” I do, although it feels strange on my lips. It’s been a long time since I smiled. Joker laughs and pats my head. “I’ve missed your smile. Harley could never compare in that aspect.”

I lean into his touch. “Please, take me back. I’m so sorry.”

He appears to think for a moment before he shrugs, unlocking the door in seconds. “Sure, Quinn. Harley’s gone anyway.” He picks me up by the straps of my straitjacket, laughing as he tugs me from the cell.

Arkham is in chaos. Most of the cells are open and everyone is screaming, prisoners and staff alike running through the hallways. Blood splashes the walls where people have been killed. Joker whistles happily as he strolls through the riot, eyes closed like he’s enjoying a beautiful symphony. I press closer to him.  
My arms are held back by the straitjacket, so I don’t want to trip. Something roars close by, and Joker cackles. “That’s Croc! He must be, haha, thrilled to be FREE!” Joker kicked a body aside and turned back to grin at me. “Isn’t it _great?_ ” I nod, smiling. It’s great, to be with him, watching his eyes light up as Arkham burns, to cause mayhem again.  
I’ve been stuck in this place screaming for him, trapped in a dark room, and now he’s found me. We turn a corner so quickly I slam into the wall, tasting iron and rust in my mouth. Joker shoves me into the arms of some henchmen while I’m still dizzy. They flinch back from me when I look up and lick blood away from my chin. 

“Christ, boss, what the fuck is this? At least Harley was hot,” one of them mutters. Joker laughs and laughs as he shoots the guy in the face. His hands go limp around me as blood splatters across my face. 

“This is, haha!, Quinn. She’s, ah, she’s an old FRIEND!” Joker says, putting his gun away. “I’ll be, haha, back in a, ha!, in a bit. Take GOOD care of her, or, HA!, I’ll kill you.” Joker winks at me and disappears through a door. I slump against the men holding me and wait. He’ll be back. I know he will.

 

One guy grips the collar of my straitjacket, another holding my shoulders. “You think she’s his?” asks a guy with tattooed knuckles.

“Eh?” 

“You think she’s his daughter or something? I bet he gave her the scars. Fuckin’ creepy.” 

Someone lets go of me, peering close. I keep quiet. My voice is ruined and gravelly from my throat being cut, so I don’t speak much. “Nah. She’s too old to be his kid. Maybe an old girlfriend.”

The men laugh nastily. “You think he’d have an ex-girlfriend? No one who hangs around him gets out alive. Look at Harley.”

There’s a pause as they think of her. “I saw her, y’know. Right before she died. She was fuckin’ laughing. Like _him_. Some guy has his hands around her neck and she _laughs_. The boss just watched. Didn’t even care. I heard he fished her out of the river later, though,” the guy behind me murmurs.

“Fuckin’ sicko.” 

The tattooed man hushes them both. “Shut up, dumbasses. What if she tells the boss?”

Someone shakes me, hard. My head hurts. “Her? She’s probably crazier than the boss. Gotta be deaf or something. She hasn’t said a word,” he says uneasily. 

Tattooed man crouches in front of me, leaning close. I shake the hair from my eyes and grin at him. He grimaces and stands up. “You’re probably right. I don’t want to know what she’s thinking anyway,” he says.

“Boss killed Charlie for saying shit about her.”

“The boss kills people all the time.” 

Tattooed guy shrugs and turns to the door. “Whatever. She’ll probably be dead in a few days.” The other men agree and are silent. 

I close my eyes, hoping to make the headache go away. I spit blood onto the floor and sniff. Someone puts a hand under my chin and raises my head. Joker smiles at me. “Were you, ha, were you a good girl, Quinnie?” His face is streaked with dirt and he bleeds from a long cut near his ear.   
I nod. The hands around my arms grip a little tighter as the men realize I’m not deaf. “I’m ALL _done_. Ready to, ha, go home?” I nod again and lean forward into his shoulder. He smells like smoke, just like I remember. Smoke and blood.  
Joker grunts and nudges me away. “I’m gonna, HA!, cut you out of that jacket.” I hear the snick of his knife and my arms are free. I stretch my hands out, wincing at the muscle cramps. “Did you leave a scar for every day you, ha, spent without me?” Joker asks. 

I smile. “You remembered.” Last time, the first time I’d been taken from Joker, I had given myself a scar every day. I have scars still, old ones from being with him. Fresh new scars from myself. 

Joker laughs and claps my back. “Of course, haha, I did. You’re, ah, skinny, Quinnie.” He chuckles at his rhyme and ruffles my close cropped hair. “And they’ve sheared you like a sheep. If it wasn’t, hah, for your pretty _scars_ I wouldn’t have known you.” He kisses my scars and cackles as we leave the asylum. 

 

It’s the first time I’d been free in years. Gotham hasn’t changed. The same gloomy, looming buildings and miserable people. The same squalor and sense of fear. I love it. I’ve missed Gotham so much.  
Joker slips down an alley way, glancing from left to right. We must be safe, because he continues on, ducking under ladders and over trash, keeping hold of my wrist the entire time. He sends his henchmen off shortly before we stop behind a large, grey stone building.  
“Welcome back, Quinn,” he says, winking at me. I smile as he shoves a door open, revealing the room inside. Men bustle around, calling to each other as they put teddy bears inside a truck. They stop when Joker clears his throat. “Hello, boys. I’m, haha, back. You all did _very_ well at, hah, Arkham, although we _did_ lose a few...friends. Ha! Tragic!”  
He laughs into his sleeve for a few seconds. “ _Anyway_ , I want those, hoo, trucks loaded and READY by ten. I have a, ha!, _special delivery_ for Gotham’s toy stores.” He gives an evil smile and spins around, taking me by the hand. “C’mon, Quinnie. Let me, haha, show you around.”   
Joker leads me through dark corridors until I’m panting and tired. It reminds me of the first time I’d met him, when he’d held up my school. He liked my scars, so he kidnapped me. I think of our long journey through tunnels and smile. I was so afraid then. I still am, but not of him. Well, not really.

It’s always wise to be a little scared of the Joker. “Where are we going?” He doesn’t look back or respond. I’m desperate not to annoy him, so I don’t ask again. We eventually reach our goal, a small room that has to be deep underground. There are no windows and the silence is eerie. There’s only a tattered bed and his suitcase inside.   
Doors lead off to rooms he doesn’t show me. I hope there’s a TV or books to entertain me. And him, because Joker is even more dangerous when he’s bored. I sit on the floor with my back against the wall, breathing hard. It’s been a long time since I last exercised.  
Joker sprawls himself on the bed and takes a knife out, tossing it into the air. I watch as he catches it centimeters before it pierces his eye. He’s always liked dangerous games. Suddenly he sits up and stalks through one of the doors. There are crashing noises and he comes back out, tossing an apple and a slice of pizza at me.

“Eat.” The pizza is cold, but I gobble it down anyway, smiling thankfully at him with sauce-smeared teeth. Joker sits up on the bed, elbows on his knees. His eyes dart from my face, to the ceiling, to the door, and back. It strikes me that he’s gotten paranoid. Well, even more paranoid.  
We’re hidden far underground, surrounded by guards, and his whole body is tense. But I’m here with him. Joker jumps up and strolls over to me, grabbing my face. His hands are dry and warm, fingernails pricking my skin.  
He looks as fierce as the day I’d met him, scars stretched grotesquely by his smile. He moves my head up and down, strokes my scars, draws a knife across my throat, always with the same curious look in his eyes. Like he’s a child examining a doll. “You’ve changed, Quinn,” he says softly. “Look how thin, ha, your face is. I like the pallor. Makes the scars _pop_. Arkham really did a number on you.”   
He chuckles and kisses my scars. “You’ve got crazy eyes now, Quinnie. Beautiful. Arkham Asylum made you _perfect_.” Suddenly I’m crying, broken down and exhausted. Joker grins down at me, enjoying the sight of my tears. He always loves to see me cry.

 

Joker leaves me crying, telling me to do whatever I want as long as I don’t leave. I nod and pretend it doesn’t terrify me to see him go. I curl up against the bed, tapping my fingers on the floor. My head hurts from when I hit it against a wall.  
My clothes-a uniform of pants and t-shirt-are dirty and stained. I had been barefoot when I left Arkham, so my feet are cracked and bleeding. I stare at the wall across from me and try to ignore the voices in my head. I’m not sure where the voices came from. They weren’t there until I went into Arkham.   
A lot of stuff was done to me there, so that could be why. Shock therapy, fiddling around with my mind through chemicals, lots of pills, therapy where they tried to brainwash me from myself, weeks spent locked alone in my cell. The voices tell me things.  
Make me hear people and sounds that aren’t there. Keep me up at night as they hiss in my ears. The voices don’t scare me as much anymore, though. I fall asleep, and wake up to darkness, and someone shaking me awake.

“Quinn.” I look up into the Joker’s green eyes. He’s sitting on my knees, holding my shoulders down. I’ve somehow rolled halfway under the bed. The material underneath is tattered, and I can see knives hidden among the slats. Joker smirks down at me, leaning closer to lick a tear from my cheek.   
“You’re, you’re _crying_ again, Quinn. _What_ did I, ha, say about CRYING? Only _smiles_ ,” he says slowly, breath hot on my skin. “You were, ah, thrashing about. Got nightmares, Quinnie? Still, haha, afraid of monsters like me? Still closing your eyes and, aha, hoping we’ll go away?”   
I shake my head. He kisses the side of my mouth once and puts his head on my shoulder, letting his body fall on mine. The bumps of his knives are vaguely uncomfortable, but I don’t mind. He’s here with me, warm, chuckling softly in my ear every few seconds.   
Eventually he slides a hand up to rub my cropped hair. “I really, ha, _really_ like the hair, Quinn. Feels, feels all squishy.” I frown. My head was shaved for one of my shock therapy sessions. They’d attached electrodes to my skull and buzzed me until my eyes ran with sparks. It didn’t change me. Joker catches the look on my face and grins, stroking the greasy curls away from my forehead. “Don’t like your new hairdo, Quinn? I think you, ha!, look _lovely_. As beautiful as ever.” I beam up at him and forget about the shock treatment.

 

Harley Quinn will not get out of my head. Pieces of her are everywhere. Scraps of red and black cloth left by the door, a few blonde hairs scattered across the wooden floor, her toothbrush still in Joker’s bathroom. I can see her whenever the henchmen look at me and sigh, when the voices produce a high pitched giggle I know is hers.   
I hate her. _Stupid_ Harley Quinn, _pretty_ Harley Quinn, _unscarred_ Harley Quinn. Harley Quinn who’s dead, who still haunts my thoughts. I take to giggling more, putting my hair up in girly styles, using Joker’s paint to smear my face black and red. All I can see in my head is _her_.

I’m forcing myself to simper at some TV show when Joker’s hand comes out of nowhere to smack my cheek. He’s sitting on the couch beside me, eyes on the screen, fists clenching and unclenching in his lap. I wince and put my hand to my sore cheek. “Ow.”

He looks over at me, eyes very dark in the dim room. “You are _NOT Harley_ ,” he says slowly, enunciating each word. I look down, feeling tears on my face. “You are _Quinn_. Stop being a stupid BITCH and realize that.” 

“You liked Harley better,” I mumble, regretting my words when his knife goes to my neck. 

“Harley was, ha!, Harley was _fun_. Mhm, FUN! She, ah, then she died. Now I have you, haha, again. You and your _pretty_ scars, Quinn. Shut _UP_ about Harley now, mmmmmmkay?” he hisses. I beam and nod.   
His face is completely emotionless as he slips the knife away. “Wipe that paint off your face,” he orders, eyes returning to the screen. I nod anxiously, hoping to please him, and hurry to the bathroom. I’m leaning into the mirror, wiping the last of the paint off my face, when he comes up behind me.   
I jump as his hands go to my waist. “Isn’t that, ha, better, Quinn?” he purrs in my ear. Fire is in my blood. 

“Mhm.” Joker slips his hands under my shirt, long nails pricking my skin. I laugh as his mouth moves to my neck.

 

He leaves me for a few days after that. I don’t even get to see him go. I wake up to an empty room. “Joker?” There’s no reply. I shrug inwardly and get out of bed. His clothes are gone, and papers are spread across the table.  
I lean over them, trying to decipher the images. I can’t. There are rows and rows of numbers in his ungainly scrawl, complicated symbols I vaguely recognize from Algebra. It strikes me, suddenly, that I never graduated from high school.   
I’d left a month or two before the school year ended. I smirk bitterly to myself, feeling a little sad. I’d had plans for myself, plans for a college outside of Gotham, plans for escape. All I can see in my future now was the Joker, large and grinning as he blocks out what I could have been.

On Day Two I get bored. Really, really bored. Joker hasn’t left me any books, and the TV isn’t working. I make the stupid decision to head upstairs, see what Joker’s henchmen are doing. I shouldn’t have. It takes me at least an hour to find my way to the main floor. The men are sitting around on boxes scattered across the warehouse floor, chattering easily.  
When I shuffle into view there’s silence. They stare at me with various negative expressions. I don’t look good. I haven’t showered in days, leaving my greasy hair to grow back in clumps. I still wear the asylum uniform, bloody feet peeking out from the hem of my pants. Bruises and cuts are visible on my arms and face. My grimy, scarred face. 

“What the hell is she?” someone says. He’s quickly hushed. I feel small and stupid as I stand there, heart pounding against my ribs. It’s just like being back in school, with everyone’s eyes on me and my scars. The thugs might as well be bitchy teenagers.   
The thought makes me laugh, too loud, the sound echoing sharply around the room. The men fidget uncomfortably, looking anywhere but at me. 

“You’re a fucking freak,” one of them snaps at me. There’s a murmur of agreement from the crowd. 

“Go back downstairs to whatever fucking pit you came from, crazy,” someone else snarls. Their eyes are angry, the men closest to me curling their fists. I shrink back into the shadows, biting my lip. 

“I’m not...I’m not crazy. I’m _not_ ,” I say softly. They just curse at me and glare as I spin and hurry back to the Joker’s room. I don’t want to be entertained anymore.

 

I’m sleeping when the Joker comes back. He shakes me awake, hard enough that I almost fall out of the bed. 

“Whad’ya....wha’s goin’ on?” I mumble, still half-asleep. 

“Quinn...haha, _Quinnie_ , I brought a friend,” he croons, hands soothing on my face. I slit an eye open and see vivid blue eyes. Blue eyes that are too intense, too focused, like they want to break my head apart and peek at my insides. Scarecrow’s eyes. The mask dangles from his left hand.  
I yelp and scurry backwards, hitting my head against the wall. Scarecrow. Scarecrow, the man who scares me more than anything, _here_. Straw pokes out from his sleeves and collar. The wall presses against my back so I can go no further. Joker cackles hysterically and points at me.   
“You, ha!, scaredy- _CAT_!” Scarecrow doesn’t say a thing, but I make sure to watch his face. Joker switches to one of his gentle moods and reaches forward, cupping my cheek. “Quinn, _Quinnie_ , it’s okay. Don’t be _scared_. He won’t touch you. _Promise_.”  
I nod quickly. Joker smiles so wide his molars show and glances at Scarecrow. “Quinnie, dear, go sit on that chair,” he says softly. I stand, careful not to touch Scarecrow, and sit on the rickety wooden frame of the only chair in the room.  
Joker creeps up behind me and puts his hands on my shoulders, leaning over to murmur in my ear, “Close your eyes, Quinnie.” There’s a tense, uneasy feeling low in my stomach, but I ignore it. I shut my eyes and wait, trusting him. There’s a hissing noise and I smell chemicals. I cough, open my eyes, and realize I’ve fallen into a nightmare.

Someone is laughing, HAHAHA, far off, low and mocking. Pitch black....I can’t see can’t look past the dark. I whimper like a hurt dog, rubbing my eyes. Air distorts, and I can see _him_. Herman Stuol, the man who raped me. He reaches for me, grinning, tears at my clothes, rip rip!, and fucks me again.  
Pain, so much pain, burning and sharp, scream for help. I can feel him inside me painful, agonizing, I rip at my throat and chest, trying to get the feel of him out of me, get him OUT, GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT, I’m howling, so scared, fuck, he opens his mouth and vomits something sticky and black onto my face, infects me, his essence down my throat and in my stomach and I scream and try to push against him but he melts in my hands to reform as Lycan.  
Torn to pieces. She looks at me for a second before her jaw lolls, exposing cracked and rotten teeth, she has no _tongue_. Joker had cut it out. Then there are tongues all over me, wet and repulsive, I tear at my clothes, have to rip them off. The mocking laughter is still there, in the background, HAHAHA, rumbling my name. 

“Quinn, Quinn, what do you see?” The darkness returns I HATE THE DARK HATE IT HATE IT HATE THE DARK and I lash out, feeling pain in my fingers but not caring. 

“Dark...the dark...and...Stuol...Herman, he...inside me, gotta get him OUT…Lycan...tongue, bloody, screams, she’s screaming. It’s _dark_ , please stop...” I whisper, still clawing against the darkness, can’t get out have to _get out_ , something rustles and I see Scarecrow, in the mask, needles gleaming even in shadows.   
Shriek louder than before and hold my hands out, I’m younger suddenly and in the Narrows again and his fear toxin is everywhere and people are screaming PLEASE PLEASE STOP THE SCREAMING _PLEADING_ and I’m so scared. “No, Scarecrow, no stop...stop!” 

The deep voice speaks again. “What do you see now, Quinn?”

“Scarecrow....It’s Scarecrow...the mask...needles....Scarecrow....dark, like....dark in Arkham, gangsters, in sewers....Scarecrow and it’s dark....” I huddle into a ball and wail hopelessly.  
Scared, scared, I’m so scared, afraid, SO AFRAID CAN’T SEE IT’S DARK and Dad is dying in front of me again, blood pours from his mouth, it’s pitch black out and my face hurts so much, can’t breathe, Dad’s moaning and I taste blood, black stitches in my ruined face AND NOW I CAN’T STOP SMILING and I smell chemicals again as everything clears up.

I’m still in Joker’s room. He and Scarecrow are also still there. I’ve thrown myself from the chair and sit curled against the wall, cement bricks cool against my skin. Joker is relaxed on the bed, eying me with disinterest, but Scarecrow stands close by.   
I can tell from the tilt of his head, the way his body leans towards me, that he watches me with fascination. He’s wearing the mask. I scream again and shut my eyes tight. 

“Take the mask off, idiot. You’re not gonna get anything sensible from her with it on,” Joker drawls. 

There’s a noise of cloth moving before Scarecrow speak. “Open your eyes, Quinn. Look at me.” His voice is soft, so gentle. Almost kind when he says my name. I force my eyes open. He crouches in front of me, mask gone. His eyes gleam with excitement, some of the first real emotion I’ve seen from him. 

“What did....what did you do to me?” I moan. My fingernails are cracked and bleeding. There are long, wet lines of blood down the wall where I’d clawed to escape the darkness.

“Just a little fear toxin. You’ll be fine...eventually. Now, tell me, what did you see?” 

“You...were talking to me...while I was under,” I realize.

He raises an eyebrow. “I’m surprised you noticed.” 

Joker chuckles behind him. “Hurry up and do your shrink stuff, Crane. Clock is ticking.”

“I want to know what you saw, Quinn.”

“Dark...it was so dark. And Herman Stuol, he was back...had to get him _out_ ,” I rasp. My clothes are ripped and bloody where I’ve torn at them, and I can feel scratches on my throat. 

“Herman Stuol?”

“Guy who raped her. Dead now,” Joker tells him. Deep inside, under the fear, I’m pleased he remembered. 

“Pity. I could’ve seen how having the source of fear in the vicinity of the subject affects the reaction. There would have to be several more tests, of course,” Scarecrow muses.

“She’s, ha, she’s _mine_ , Crane. Not one of, ah, your scared little _victims_. If anyone gets to play with, haha, her head it’s ME. There will be no repeats of this test.”

“Mhm.” 

Scarecrow sighs and focuses on me again. “What else?”

“Lycan. On me, dead...and her tongue...tongues all over.” My whole body shudders. “Ripped to pieces.” 

Scarecrow looks confused. “You’re afraid of wolves and tongues?”

Joker’s cackle is sharp in the brief silence. “No, Crane. Remember that vigilante chick, Lycan? Over six years ago, not surprised you don’t remember. Anywho, me, you, and Ivy, we killed her. I cut out her tongue. Made, haha, Quinnie watch.” 

Scarecrow thinks for a moment before nodding slowly. “Mm...yes. I remember now. The subject must have been traumatized. What else did you see, Quinn? Besides the dark. Nearly everyone fears the dark.” His smile turns bitter. “Even people like us. We fear what hides in it.” 

Joker sighs like Scarecrow is being obnoxious. “I thought you were here to examine Quinn, not, haha, talk about the Bat.”

Scarecrow nods absently. “Yes. Now, tell me more, Quinn.” His eyes are too intense on mine.

I feel like he’s rubbing and poking all over my brain. “You. I saw you.” 

He looks surprised. “Me? Was I hurting you, perhaps? Shrouded in darkness? What fear did you cast onto me, Quinn?” 

“No...it was you. Just you. The Scarecrow. The mask and the needles and, and the fear. It was so dark.” 

I press my face into my knees and sob. Scarecrow rocks back onto his heels. “The subject only sees me...as I normally appear. No fears projected onto my visage, just me. Thus, the subject is afraid of the fear I can cause. One might even say that you are afraid of fear itself.” He gives a dry chuckle. “How clever.”

“Are you done?” Joker asks impatiently. “I have, hah, people to kill.” 

Scarecrow stands and slips the mask away. “I’m done, yes. Thank you for allowing me to work with her. It’s been a long time since I was able to experiment with someone who is truly mad. It is interesting that when it comes to fear, there is no difference between sane and insane. Not at all...”

He keeps mumbling to himself as he walks from the room, leaving me with the Joker. I sniff and hug my knees. “Why did you let him do that?”

Joker shrugs. “It pays to keep a useful guy like Scarecrow happy. He wanted someone crazy to mess with, and I thought of you.” He gets off the bed and strolls over to me, kicking aside the chair I’d fallen from. “And I kept my promise. Scarecrow didn’t ever touch you.” He wraps a skinny arm around my shoulders and squeezes, grinning so wide that I just have to smile.

 

Someone is laughing at me HA HA HA it’s _dark_ so dark and people are touching me GET OFF GET OFF GET OFF OF ME flashes of light and I can’t see, hearing Scarecrow breathing through the mask, “Quinn, what the, ha, hell?” and I’m clawing at the darkness GO AWAY there’s a snap and my fingers are in agony, and the darkness clears up.

Joker is sitting on my chest, making it hard to breathe. His hands are at my face, smacking my cheeks. I wince and turn my head away, snapping, “What are you doing?” 

He rolls off me and sits up, grinning. “You just, ah, fell over and started screaming, Quinnie. Tried to scratch my lovely face.” Joker smirks and picks my hand up. “So I, haha, I broke some fingers. Oops!”

My right index and middle fingers are crooked. As I begin to calm down I realize how painful they are. “O-Ow,” I whimper, taking my hand from his and holding it against my chest. He stands and walks to the table, tossing me a roll of tape. I catch it with my good hand, examining it.

“Wrap your hand up in that,” he orders, turning back to his plans.

“Thanks.” I carefully tape my fingers together before speaking again. “Scarecrow’s drug is still inside me, isn’t it?” Joker shrugs in an agreeable way. “When will it go away?” He shrugs again.  
I swallow, feeling sick and scared, wishing I could drain the blood from my body just to get the toxin out. “Can you help me?” 

Joker growls low in his throat and spins around, hurling a knife at me. “No. I’m not your _mommy_. Shut up and let me work.” I curl up against the bed and cry.


	2. Tam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like killing off DC versions of Marvel characters in my stories, and vice versa, or whatever, because pain is good. In this chapter, Peter Parker dies.

The fear toxin lingers. I drift through the next few days, going in and out of the nightmare world. I’ll come back from it to hear Joker laughing at me, or yelling when I interrupt his thoughts.  
The attacks can strike at any time, at night I wake up with Joker leaning over me and adding new cuts to my arms as he whispers, “I could’ve slept longer, Quinnie.” My head always hurts, my throat aches from screaming, and my hands shake. 

 

Footsteps. Someone is walking towards me, laughing, hissing through a mask, ARE YOU SCARED YET? Scarecrow leaning over, dragging his needles across my skin.  
I scream and crawl backwards, fall into a pit, blackness, the dark, can hear scratchy noise of Scarecrow’s syringes being dragged along a wall, people are touching me LET GO LET GO and someone is screaming far away and I reach forward....

 

I come out of the attack to hear voices in the room, different from Joker’s familiar cackle. I’m face down on the bathroom floor, soap suds dotting my skin. I was washing my hands when the attack struck, making me fall. “Mmph.”

I roll over, smelling flowers. My eyes shoot open when I recognize the scent. Poison Ivy is here. I sit up and see her, sitting at the table a few feet away from me. She looks the same. Red hair rippling down her back, green tinted skin, curves that are almost unreal, plants her only clothing.

“Smiley. It’s been a while,” she says without turning. She’s the only person who ever bothered to call me that.

“Uh. Yeah. It has.” She looks back for a moment and winks. I stand carefully, holding my injured hand close. I’ve kept the tape on, but my fingers are bruised and mottled, healing crooked. Poison Ivy, Scarecrow, and Clayface are sitting at the table, chatting casually.  
Clayface looks like the unassuming guy I’d first seen six years before. He glances over at me and makes an odd face, clearly wondering where he’s seen me before. Scarecrow just stares straight ahead with a bored expression. “Um, where’s Joker?” I rasp.

Clayface peers at me, frowning. “Your voice is weird.” 

I flush and look away. Joker walks in a few minutes later, nonchalantly wiping blood off his hands. “ _Hello_ , everyone. It’s, haha, nice to see you.” They nod at him. Joker looks to me, “Get out of here, Quinn.” I nod and scurry out, sitting against the tunnel wall until the murmur of their voices rises and fades.  
Clayface is out first, one of his hands dripping mud. I remember the terrified, whimpering noises he’d made when Joker tortured him for betraying us and smile. I’m not fond of Clayface. 

He looks down at me, frowning angrily. “What’re you grinning at?” I hide my scarred mouth with a hand and shrug. He huffs and stomps away, getting steadily goopier as he loses focus. Poison Ivy strolls after him, calling his name.  
He solidifies and waits for her, offering an arm. She takes it and they walk off together, talking quietly. She says something that makes him blush and winks, then looks back at me to blow a kiss. I wave feebly. When Scarecrow walk out I grab his sleeve before I lose my nerve.

He glares down at me with cold blue eyes. “What do you want?” 

“Please, the toxin...I keep going into the nightmare world. Please, Scarecrow, make it go away,” I beg, letting go of his sleeve.

He looks suddenly interested as he crouches in front of me, hands touching my throat, taking my pulse. His skin is icy. I resist the urge to run as far away from him as possible. “I must have forgotten to give you the antidote....What an adverse reaction, too. Pulse is a little fast...the toxin or just nerves?” He looks up at me, fingers leaving my neck. “Have you been exposed to any of my toxins before?” 

“Yeah, in the, the Narrows.” 

His eyes light up, and for a moment he almost looks friendly. “The Narrows? You mean my first widespread experiment. That was a good night.” I shudder and try to move away from him. 

It had been an awful night for me, and anyone else infected. “Can you make the fear go away?” 

“I could, but I won’t. I’d like to further observe the long term effects of fear on the insane. Didn’t have enough time in Arkham. I see you often enough that it will work...” He appears to be going off into his head again, planning to let me have the attacks over and _over_.

I grab his arm, ignoring the way he looks up with a snarl. “ _No_. Take the toxin out now, or I’ll tell Joker and he’ll, he’ll give you a grin like mine,” I hiss. 

Scarecrow watches me for a second before shrugging casually, digging in his pocket until he produces a small yellow pill. “Take this. It will chase the toxin from your blood.”

I take it, staring suspiciously. “If this is more fear toxin...” 

“It is not.” I wonder if he can tell how scared I am. Probably, but he doesn’t say anything. I swallow the pill and sit back. It tastes bitter. “Good. You can go now.”

Scarecrow smirks at me and stands, hands in his pockets. “Ordering me around? Don’t get too brave, Quinn. After all...” He pulls his mask out and puts it on, pushing his face close to mine. I scream and curl up, hiding my face. “I know what you fear,” he finishes, laughing quietly as he walks away.

 

I go back to Joker with my hands shaking, but feeling pretty pleased with myself. I’ll be healed now, the Nightmare world banished. Joker is sprawled in his chair looking bored, jaw working as he stares at the TV screen. All I can see is static, and I wonder what he’s seeing. “Joker?” 

“I’m thinking.” I close my mouth and sit near him, thumbing through a book. Funny, that. I wasn’t much of a reader before Joker took me. Halfway through my book Joker jumps up, sending his chair falling backward. “Quinn. Get me, ha, get me a gun.”  
I hurry to obey, searching the room to find his Glock left on the bed. I pick it up, feeling the heavy weight in my hands. I still haven’t gotten used to guns. If I’m going to be violent I prefer knives, like Joker. He takes it from me and spins, pulling the trigger.  
I cover my ears as the gun goes off, leaving three bullet holes in the opposite wall. They make a perfect triangle. Joker tosses the gun casually aside, waving the smoke away. “Shoulda shot you, Quinnie, ha, shoulda shot your pretty heart out,” he mumbles, spinning around me and away.  
I swallow back the fear and force myself to be still, keeping my shoulders straight. He can be like a wild animal when someone shows fear, striking randomly. He has this unsettling habit of circling people, making them turn and turn to keep him in view. I’m tempted to do that now.  
He comes up from behind to wrap an arm around me, body pressed into mine. The barrel of a gun is held to my temple, cold and dangerous. The breath catches in my throat. I can hear Joker breathing, interrupted by his soft chuckles. I have the sense he’s waiting for something. 

“Please...” I murmur, hands going up to grip the arm around my chest. I recognize this as a hostage posture, something Joker will know well. He holds me tighter, almost painful, coat buttons cutting into my back. 

“Your brains all over the wall, splattered pink, haha, gonna cut and bleed and maim and _hurt_ , haha, scream, gonna make you _scream_ , Quinnie, stretch those _pretty_ scars. HA! Wanna hurt you kill you, break you in half, Quinnie,” he hisses in my ear, pushing the gun harder into my skin.  
I squirm a little, trying to pull his arm away from my chest. “No, no, Quinnie, stay _still_. Stay fucking _still_.”

I freeze immediately, keeping hold of his arm. “Please, don’t,” I whisper, letting my head fall back on his shoulder. The gun is gone instantly, replaced by the familiar, almost comforting, knife. I swallow, letting the blade slice my skin, and wait. He can kill me or not, I have no power.  
Joker traces patterns across my throat and to my face, lingering on the scars, before he cackles loud enough to make me jump, putting the knife away. He has me tug my shirt up and over my head as he undoes his pants.

I breathe a sigh of relief and reach for him, surprised when he dances away. “Nope, ha, nope, Quinn.” My pulse is hammering in my ears again, but not from fear anymore. Joker isn’t dangerous like this anyway. 

“But....”

He grins at me, knife appearing in one hand. “ _Run_ , Quinn. I wanna, ha, play.” I giggle and start running.  
Later, when he’s done fucking me, I sprawl on the bed and sleep, missing his departure. I wake up to a very bright light, almost painful. I blink sleepily and feel like I’m falling.

I’m not falling, though. Suddenly the world is tilting to the side, walls melting into a thousand colors. I hear chimes somewhere distant, I feel dizzy and fall to my knees, gagging. I don’t throw up, but the walls haven’t stopped moving and the floor is unsteady under my feet. Standing, I stumble for the door.  
The lock seems to dance away from my hand, glinting impishly, so I give up and slump to the ground again. Close my eyes tight, curl up holding my knees. The chimes fade eventually as the floor stops rocking.

I opened my eyes to see that everything appears normal. I’m sitting two feet away from the door, although it had seemed so close. “What was that?” I mumble, getting to my feet. I decide to shrug the incident off as something Joker had given me as a prank. It’s something he would do. 

And all of a sudden the world tilts again, shadows lengthening. Chimes are ringing again, the room goes dark and I feel dizzy, a little scared. I don’t like the dark. The floor is unsteady. I stumble and fall to my bum. “Hello?” My voice echoes oddly, like it’s been stolen from my throat.  
I don’t speak again, lean my head back, look up and see two bright lights, spinning closer. Try to reach for them, but my arms are too heavy, I can’t move. I’m happy, though, almost hysterically so, grin stretching so far my scars hurt.  
Close my eyes, but it doesn’t help this time, just makes me feel worse, a wave of nausea washes over me, so I lie back until the weirdness passes.

 

When I come back Joker’s hands are on my face, skittering across my skin, forcing me to smile. “ _Quinn. Stop_ ,” he growls, eyes narrowed dangerously. I grab his wrists, trying to pull his hands away, but it’s useless. 

The room keeps shifting in and out of focus, so I close my eyes. “S-Scarecrow,” I blurt out, realizing what’s happened. He wouldn’t be able to accept a loser like me threatening him. The pill he’d given me had chased the nightmare world away, replacing it with something else.  
Joker shoves me away when I gag, coughing spit onto the floor. I’m distantly thankful that he hasn’t fed me in a few days. “S-Scarecrow gave me a pill,” I force out, hoping Joker can hear me. Hoping he’ll go after Scarecrow and keep me safe. 

Joker crosses his arms and sits on the couch, tapping his foot. His eyes are empty. “Scarecrow did this?” I nod, pausing for a moment when the room begins to spin. 

“He forgot the antidote. Didn’t want to, want to give it to me. Wanted to observe more. I thr-threatened him, told him to give it to me, me or you’d kill ‘im.” I can hear chimes again, mixing with the voices I’ve gotten used to.  
“Gave me a pill, said it’d make the nightmares go away.” I giggle, on the edge of hysteria. “I’d be, I’d be safe.” 

Joker cackles, kicking out to knock me off my knees. “Stupid. You’re STUPID, Quinnie.” He jumps off the couch and onto me, heavy enough to push the air from my lungs. “Go to Scarecrow? YOU WENT TO SCARECROW?” His knife is to my neck. 

As I drift in and out of the drug world, I can’t tell what’s real or not. “S-Sorry. Wanted _safe_.” 

He pushes against my chest, licking the tears from my face. “Gonna _leave_ , Quinnie? You, ha, gonna go to Scarecrow, be his little subject? First, HA!, first CATWOMAN, NOW SCARECROW!” He slams my head against the ground, hard enough that I see white light.  
I groan, trying to curl up, but he holds my arms down. “You are _mine_. Mine mine _mine_ , Quinnie, and I, hoo boy, I don’t like to _SHARE_!” He punches me in the face until my nose breaks. 

The pain is blinding, made worse by my shifting between reality and the drug world. “Please...don’t...” I manage to get out, tasting blood on my lips. One of my eyes is swollen shut, throbbing.  
“ _Shut up_. Shut up shut up shut _UP_ , Quinnie,” he roars, tracing the knife up my throat and into my mouth. I swallow, knowing I already have scars there, but I didn’t want more. The blade is cold, biting into my tongue, icy as he pushes it against my lips.  
I keep as still as possible, even when the drug world appears. His voice sounds far away as he says, “Cut out, haha, your eyes, Quinnie. Slice off your ears and feed them to _Croc_. Mail your, ha!, mail your tongue to Batsy.”  
He chuckles and rolls off me, giving a good kick to my ribs. “You stay with _me_ , Quinnie. You’re _mine_ , but you seem to forget that.” He pauses for a moment. “Maybe I should, ah, engrave it on you.”  
He moves me onto my stomach, pulling my shirt up. My broken nose is pressed against the floor and I whine, trying to turn over. He holds my head up by the hair, which hurts, but not as badly. When I feel the knife at the base of my spine I start struggling.

“Joker! Stob...” I slur out, broken nose making the words strange. He pushes my face into the floor and I scream, then fall silent.

“Shh, haha, shh, _shh_ , Quinnie. No noise.” I shut my good eye tight as the knife bites into my skin. Joker tugs upward, fast enough that it’s a second before the pain hits.  
When it does, my body arches, trying to get him off me, chase the pain away. He’s ripped the skin open from the base of my spine to the top. Joker waits until I’m still before he pulls me up to face him. Every inch of me is agony.  
“This is, haha, gonna hurt, Quinn.” I have a moment of confusion before his hands go to my nose and twist, setting it back into place. It hurts enough to override my back, even if for just a second. I yelp and pull away from him, stumbling when the drug world makes his eyes go neon green. 

“Can’t see....drugs...” I mutter as my head spins. He sighs and rummages around in his coat for a minute, coming up with a syringe. 

“Stole this, ha, from Bats. Think it’s anti something or other.” He shrugs, sticking the needle into my arm without hesitation. Up close, I can see the Bat symbol on the side. The pounding in my head fades slightly as the drug drains away, making me feel loose.  
“Go, haha, clean yourself up, Quinn,” Joker orders, flicking the TV on. I get up to my hands and knees before finally standing, heading for the kitchen. I grab the bag of frozen peas and hold it against my face, wishing Joker had pain medicine.  
He doesn’t, of course, since he either doesn’t feel pain or likes it, I’m not sure. I head for the shower, undressing as quickly as possible without straining my back. I can feel the blood draining down, pooling inside my waistband.  
I step into the shower, ignoring the stinging pain, and watch the water run red with my blood. Alone and naked, I go over my injuries. My ribs are bruised, but not broken. From the waist down I’m fine, only healing cuts and bruises.  
My previously broken fingers are painful, but not important. My nose is broken, but Joker has straightened it, and it’ll heal with time. I know I have a black eye, as well as, probably, a minor concussion. I wash out the cut on my back best I can and wait until the water isn't quite so red before I get out.  
Holding the frozen peas to my face with one hand, I press band aids against the cut on my back and dress, then brush my teeth to get the taste of blood from my mouth. I look like hell, but it’s my fault. I shouldn't have gone to Scarecrow, knowing what had happened last time. Joker can be really possessive.  
I paste a smile on and step from the bathroom. Joker glances at me and nods. “Better. I’ll find, ha, Scarecrow later, let him, ha, know not to mess with what’s mine.” I smile for real this time, pleased to be claimed by him, and head for the couch.  
I sit, wincing as my back is tugged open, but it’s worth it to be close to him, his hands absently tracing my scars.

 

Joker does something to Scarecrow that makes him limp for days, and I feel safe. I belong to Joker, who has given me tattoos, marked my skin with scars and my mind with his addictive, vicious personality. He hasn’t fucked me since the night he broke my nose. It’s swollen and painful, but I smile for him anyway.  
The cut on my back is scabbing over, too. He left on a job, promising to be back in a week or so with presents. I wander alone around the compound, making sure the guards don’t see me too often. Mostly I stay inside the room, reading, watching the staticy TV, and sleeping. It’s boring.  
I want to go outside, see the side of Gotham Joker had shown me. I’m twitchy, ansty. When Joker finally comes back I jump on him, pleading, “Can we go out somewhere? Do something? Please?” His mouth turns up in a pleased smirk. 

“Sure, Quinnie. You, ah, wanna join me? Have a, ha!, an _adventure?_ ” I nod eagerly as he spins and opens the door for me, bowing low. “Lady Quinn, your, aha, bullet riddled chariot awaits.”  
I step in front of him and giggle as we head from the building. Joker can be really, really fun when he’s in a good mood. Almost normal sometimes, a young man with scars on his face grinning gleefully down at me. It’s dark, probably late at night, so we don’t bother with disguises.  
He takes my hand and tugs me along, telling snarky jokes about everything we pass. I’m happy. Joker swings me onto a ledge and hops up to sit beside me, kicking his legs against the brick like a child. He never seems to get tired, body humming with pent up energy. “So, ah, Quinn, I got you a, haha, present or two,” he tells me, slipping an arm around my waist.

“Yeah? What?” I perk up, leaning into him. He must’ve been doing something especially violent before he came to me, because his usual smoky scent is mixed with blood. I don’t mind. 

“Well, I got, hoo!, some new books. I’m gonna fix the, haha the TV.” He pauses for a second. “Nah, I’ll just steal a new one.” He starts fishing around in his pockets. “Got you...hm....another thingie.”  
He takes it out, grinning. “Ha!” He holds a knife out to me, hilt first. “Here it is, Quinn! Your own knife!” I take it from him, weighing it in my palm. It says Harpy, and after messing around for a bit I figure out how the blade works. 

It isn’t a pretty knife. Clunky, rusting in places, wickedly sharp. I beam up at him. “Thank you.”

He smiles and spins, coattails swirling around his legs. “C’mon, Quinn. Let’s go, haha, get a drink.”

 

Of course, the Joker can’t go to a normal bar. I follow him down side streets and alleys until my legs ache, but he finally stops in front of me, holding a hand up. “Wait here, Quinn.” He lopes around a corner and out of view.

I swallow my fear and sit against a shadowed wall, ignoring the grime. He’ll come back. I know he will. I haven’t done anything bad recently. I sit, waiting for him to return, wishing it wasn’t quite so dark. I look up when I hear a rattling noise, like someone is on the stairs above. I wait, a hand to my knife. It could be nothing, a stray cat or a bird, but life with the Joker has made me wary.  
Someone jumps down in front of me and I yelp, flinching backward. It’s just a kid, though, a boy maybe a few years younger than me. He wears ratty jeans and sneakers, a stained blue t-shirt. Handsome, brown eyed and smiling, his hair cut short. Not threatening.  
I relax, putting the knife away and hoping he’ll be gone before Joker returns. I can tell the shadows hide my face, because he’s still grinning, eyes warm. “Hey there. Sorry I scared you. Just escaping from my aunt.” He gestures upwards, where I assume his apartment is. “I got grounded. Stayed out past curfew.”  
He makes a motion like _What are you gonna do?_ Careless, young. Happy. I watch with fascination, at an average teenager, like I’ve never been even before Joker took me.  
I never liked other teenagers when I was one, but now I want to hear everything he says, of a normal life with aunts who care enough to punish, where escaping from windows doesn’t mean you’re running from Batman, the life of someone with no scars. “I’m Peter, by the way. Who’re you?” 

“Quinn,” I whisper, keeping my gravelly voice smooth as possible. He crouches down with easy grace, so young it almost hurts.

His face fills with sympathy. I know he still can’t see me. I don’t want him to. I want him to go back up to his apartment, safe with his aunt, because this boy is kind enough to care for a stranger. “Are you homeless?”

“No.” A car drives past, lighting the alley enough for him to see me. His smile disappears as he leans closer. I can smell him, clean laundry and Axe and boy, so achingly normal I want to push him away and hug him tight at the same time.

“Oh my God, your face! It’s...your nose!”

“Broken.”

“Who did it? I can help,” he says earnestly. 

I laugh, sounding bitter even to myself. “No, you can’t. I, ah, fell.” 

I must’ve learned how to lie better, because he sits back, relaxing. “Oh. And your mouth?” “Just a few scars.” “You have just a few scars like Gotham is just a little fucked,” he quips.

I laugh, surprising myself with how lighthearted it is. It’s been a long time since my laughter wasn’t sad or hysterical. He starts to say something, probably to try and make me laugh again, but there’s a gunshot and blood splashing across my face, his eyes going dull as he collapses onto me.  
I look up to see Joker, grinning down at me as he slips his gun away. “Oops. Sorry, Quinn.” I start screaming, loud and panicked, my bloody hands clutching at Peter’s shoulders. Dead, he’s dead, and it’s my fault, he could’ve been far away, alive and smiling, instead of his blood dripping down the bricks of an alley.  
Upstairs his aunt is blissfully unaware of her nephew shot dead on the ground below. And me, hugging him, wailing, feeling something dark and vicious build up in my chest. Joker throws him off me and away. I wince at the sound his body makes when it falls, and keep shrieking.  
Joker’s hands are on me, patting, reaching, hissing angrily in my ears, “Shut up, Quinnie, shut up shut up shut _up_ , shut up, ha, now or I swear I’ll break your fucking nose again.” I whine and go very, very still, clinging to the new darkness inside myself.  
He drags me up by the arm and around a corner, ducking into a secret door. We stand in a dim room filled with tables, some sort of bar. For criminals apparently, because everyone is shady, and I see Two-Face slouched at the bar with a drink in each hand.  
Joker wrestles me into a seat before sitting across the table, staring. A muscle in his jaw twitches. I hold his gaze, keeping my shaking hands in my lap. “Quinn...” 

“May I go to the bathroom?” I interrupt. “I need to throw up.” He nods and I run, making it to a trashcan before I vomit until my throat burns. I’ve seen people die before, my father, Joker’s henchmen, Lycan, others he’s killed. I’ve killed before, too, my mother’s creepy boyfriend, had Joker help me kill a gambler.  
No one like this, though. My dad was killed by a Mob hit, one I’m too traumatized to really remember. Joker’s men weren’t innocent, and neither was Mom’s boyfriend or the gambler. I don’t know or care about the others, don’t know their first names or what they smelled like or how kind they were to strangers.  
I laugh before gagging into the trashcan again when I realize Peter is the first person besides vigilantes, criminals, and therapists that I’ve had contact with in several years. And Joker has killed him. I return to the table and sit across from Joker, avoiding his eyes.  
“ _Quinn_ ,” he sing-songs, kicking at my shins under the table. I swallow thickly, curling my fists in the table cloth. “It was, ha, just a _boy_ , Quinnie. Not, haha, not important.” He chuckles and reaches across the table to lift my chin with a finger.

“He was being nice to me,” I whisper. 

“He wouldn’t, ah, be so fucking nice if he knew who you are. He’d run away like, haha, everyone else. _Screaming_.” My lower lip trembles and he sighs, sitting back in his chair, long fingers laced together. “Quit, ha!, being so weak. Things happen. People get shot in the head, or disemboweled, or ripped to pieces.”  
He tips the chair back and laughs until he’s gasping for air. I cross my arms over my chest, ignoring the instinctive need to smile with him. He notices, calming down and frowning at me. “Give me a _smile_ , Quinn. C’mon, everything’s, everything’s _good_!”  
He stands suddenly, getting angry, and everyone in the bar except for Two-Face tenses up. I guess it takes a real villain to ignore the Joker’s moods. Joker grabs my wrist, tight enough to bruise, and storms from the bar.

The happiness from earlier is gone. His nails are biting into my skin, and we’re going fast enough to stretch the cut down my spine. It’s bleeding again, but I don’t say anything. The familiar flutter of fear is back in my stomach, less hidden by shock and anger.  
I expect him to bring me home, punish me for disobeying. Instead, I’m brought to an empty building covered in condemned signs. It’s a little too dim for me to see clearly, which is worrying. I get the sense of being in a very large room, possibly another warehouse. Joker’s painted white face glows from the gloom, black eyes in shadow. 

“Where are we?” I ask quietly, rubbing my wrist when he finally lets it go. 

“Dunno. Ha, some place,” he says casually. “I, haha, I killed the boy, Quinnie. It’s done. Get _over_ it.” I grit my teeth. “I _can’t_.” My eyes are beginning to adjust to the dark, enough that I can see him. His head is bowed, shoulders tensed up as he shifts from foot to foot. “Alright then. Hit me.” 

I hesitate, unsure if I heard him right. “What?” 

“Hit, haha, _hit_ me. Let it all _out_.” He lets one of his crazier cackles loose. 

“I can’t hit you,” I protest, but my hands are clenched. He hops closer, taking my fist and pressing it to his face. 

“C’mon. _C’mon_ , QUINN! HIT ME!” he yells, pushing against my hand. His eyes are shining, desperate and insane as he holds my gaze. I pull back and swing, feeling my fist hit his cheek with a satisfying crunch.  
Hurts like hell, but the ache in my knuckles is nothing compared to how good it feels. Joker doesn’t even flinch, just laughs softly. “Again, Quinn, ha!, I can take it!” I kick out at him, beating my fists against his chest, screaming awful things until my throat is raw.  
Then I collapse into him, breathing hard. The curls of my hair are damp with sweat. My fists are throbbing and the cut on my back has not been helped by all that movement, but it doesn’t matter. “Feel better?” Joker asks, more amusement than usual in his voice. 

I wait until my breathing calms before answering. “Yeah, actually.” He nods, untangling my fingers from his shirt. I’m thankful I had enough presence of mind not to punch him with the hand that has broken fingers.  
The rage I’d felt earlier is fading, replaced by exhaustion, satisfaction that I’d been able to take my anger out on someone. I wonder if that’s why Batman does what he does, if he’s so angry he’s made a life out of punching people.

“Good. Let’s go, hmm, home.” Joker takes my hand, gently this time, and we leave. I’ve forgiven Joker, gotten my anger out and been enchanted again by his charm, but I dream of Peter that night, wake up feeling like his blood covers my hands even though I washed it off before sleeping.  
I go to the bathroom anyway, wash my hands again and again until Joker comes in to yell and give me more scars for his lack of sleep. 

 

“Joker?” 

“Yes, ah, yes?” It’s several days after he killed that boy in the alley. My nose is half-healed, fingers no longer bruised. The scar on my back has scabbed over enough that I’m no longer in danger of reopening it whenever I move.  
We’re outside, in a dim parking lot next to a sewer. I’m crouched on the ground near Joker, watching as he tosses small grenades from hand to hand. Joker licks at his scars as he works, brows furrowed.

“What are you doing?” 

He glances over his shoulder at me, giving a mischievous grin. “I wanna, ha!, talk to a friend.”

I look around myself, note the sewer, and come to a conclusion. “You want Killer Croc?”

He nods excitedly, loose like a bobble head toy. “Good _girl_ , Quinnie. Using those, ah, pretty eyes of yours.” I blush and smile. I have been feeling better lately. My hair is longer now, curling over my ears, and I stole new clothes from a shop.  
I lick at my own scars as he pulls the pin on each grenade and tosses them down the grate. There’s an explosion that makes the ground shake, causing me to stumble into Joker. He slaps idly at the back of my head, hissing, “Quit it!” I wince, rubbing at my sore back, and wait for Croc.

 

It doesn’t take long. There’s a snuffling noise below us, and yellow eyes peer through the gate. Croc narrows his eyes at us and huffs, but wraps clawed hands around the bars to come up from the sewer. He somehow manages to push his massive shoulders through, stands to tower above us. 

“Hello,” he says carefully, eyes darting from side to side.

“Hey, old buddy! How’s it, HA!, going in your slimy, ah, little world?” 

Killer Croc bares a fang. “Get to the point, Joker.”  
Joker shrugs, dancing from foot to foot. He twirls and gives a theatrical bow to Croc, holding a hand out. There’s a small, glittering stone cradled in his palm. Croc leans closer, the scales of his face shifting into an expression I think is confusion. “Nice. Why’m I here?”

“I want, haha, want more of _these_. Lots of pretties for my collection! Need someone with lots of strength.” He makes a gun shape with his fingers and points to Croc, giggling. “You!” 

“Where and when?” Croc rumbles. He seems to be angry.

“I want you at Mr. Franklin Bover’s party, hoo!, for the celebration of ancient _jewels_ ,” Joker tells him, smiling wide. 

Croc shrugs, the large muscles in his shoulders bulging. “Want three jewels for pay.” 

“Sure, buddy! That’s, hee, great. I’ll, ah, see ya then.” Croc turns in one smooth movement to disappear down the sewer with a flicker of tail. Joker wraps an arm around my shoulder, leaning against me. His breath is hot in my ear, coming fast. “I, ah, so many pretties, Quinn! Gonna _smash_ that party wide open and, hoo-boy!, take what I want!”  
I nod, trying to move away when his grip tightens painfully. “Maybe I’ll take you along, give my, haha, princess a crown,” he mutters, kissing my scars as he lets me go.

 

Two days later, Croc shows up. He’s limping, tail curled protectively around his chest. One of his eyes is swollen, shot with red, and there’s blood all over him. He’s breathing heavily. Joker’s hand goes to his knife when he steps for the warehouse door, grinning as he opens it to let Croc inside.  
“Croc! What, er, gives me the honor of your presence?” he says brightly, keeping his eyes on Croc’s claws.

“Batman is on the hunt,” Croc rasps in a strained voice. “Had to leave my sewers. Fought my way past him. And others.” The tendons in his neck are standing out from stress, teeth bared. Croc looks even more animalistic than usual. 

Joker steps aside for him anyway, looking to me with a careless smile. “Quinn. Take care of him.”

“Me? But I-” 

Joker shoves me towards Croc, hard enough that I almost touch his scales. “Do it, Quinn. You heal yourself often enough.” Joker is gone in seconds, his cackling laughter still echoing. I look up at Croc, who stares down at me with dazed eyes.  
The first time I’d met him had been in the sewers, when Joker left me behind for days as punishment. Croc had sniffed at me, called me Joker’s girl, and decided not to eat me. The memory of those days still makes me shudder.

“So, um...hi. I’m Quinn.” 

“Joker’s other girl. I remember you.” He peers closer with his good eye, sniffing at the air. “You changed, cherie. There’s madness in you now.” I swallow, unsure how to answer that. I know I have voices in my head, and hear things that aren’t there. Arkham did this to me.  
Killer Croc staggers over to a pile of boxes and settles himself carefully down on them, wincing. “Heal me, then.” I hurry to get clean rags, water, and the paltry First Aid kit Joker keeps around for me. Croc’s hunched over when I return.  
His clawed hands are shaking. “Croc?”

His eyes are even more dazed when he looks up at me. “Go ahead.” I dab at the blood on his scales, ignoring the awful rust and iron scent of it. I’ve had to get used to blood. The rags are soaked red when I’m done. I decide that Croc’s face will be fine, just a black eye. If he can get those.

“Is anything, uh, broken, sir?”

He pulls his tail away from his chest and winces, letting out a low growl. “Dunno. Seems to be mostly cuts and bruises.” I keep quiet and press bandages to the smaller cuts littering his body, run to get ice for his eye.  
It’s surprisingly soothing, healing someone. I’ve gotten better at it, and I like the rhythm, that Killer Croc relaxes as I put him back together. The worst injuries are to his chest and tail. The skin along the top of his tail is patchy and mottled, leathery when I touch it. Croc snarls and jerks away from me, sending Joker’s men scurrying for safety.  
I take a deep, shuddering breath and stand my ground. I‘ve withstood Joker’s moods, Scarecrow’s toxins, my mother’s abuse, rape, and Arkham. I can handle Killer Croc. I take a step towards him, holding out a trembling hand. 

“Croc, there are burns on your tail. Would you please hold still so I can take care of them?” I say as gently as my gravelly voice will allow. He gives me a wary look, but settles back down on the box. “I’m not really sure how to take care of burns, sir. How’d you get them?” 

I hope talking will distract him. He flinches as I return to his tail, deciding it’ll be best to cover it in cool water for a bit, then put on burn salve. The skin visible beneath the burns is red and raw, so painful I grimace with sympathy.  
There’s burn stuff in the box, enough to cover everything. I bandage him up as he talks. “Batman’s s’not the only one who hunts me, cherie. Always have been, even when I was a little. They call me monster, get surprised when I act like one.” He huffs when I press too hard on a burn, but doesn’t fight.  
“Someone set fires to chase me out. Killed em all for it. My tail caught the worst of it.” He nods smugly as I tape the bandages down and let him go. I’m not going to blame him for killing people. Joker’s done far worse. 

“Keep putting that burn stuff on it until it’s healed,” I tell him, stepping forwards to examine his chest. “You can keep this, actually. Joker’s men use their own stuff and I’m rarely burned. Change the bandages every day.”

Killer Croc glances at my bare arms, shiny with scars, and nods. “You’re used to taking care of wounds.” 

“Yeah, I guess. I, uh, get hurt a lot, and it’s not like Joker can take me to a doctor.” I grin up at him, fingers tracing carefully along the bumps of his ribs. All seems to be in order. “And I read all the time, too. In Arkham I read a bunch of medical books. Learned how to sew so I can stitch someone up. Joker needed stitching once, and I couldn’t, so...”  
I shrug, finding a deep gash on his forearm. “I always planned to come back to him. This time, I wanted to be better.”  
I take out a needle and thread, deciding to clean them first. Joker seems to be so full of chemicals that nothing can harm him, but I’m not so sure about Croc. I hold the needle to his scales and hesitate. “Um, will this needle be strong enough to go through your scales?”

He nods solemnly, giving me an almost smile. “Push hard.” He hisses as I push the needle inside, muscles tensing under my hands. I go quickly, tie it off and judge my work. The stitches are ugly and ragged, but sturdy. Croc will heal.  
There are five other cuts on him that require stitching, four long scrapes across his shoulder blades and one that’s almost ripped some of his spikes off. I’m careful with that one. The spikes jut from his shoulders and elbows, jagged and sharp. I cut my finger just brushing against one.  
Midway through the last stitch I hear Joker come in, sense his eyes on me. I finish up with Croc and turn to him, wiping the blood off my hands. He steps from the shadows and grins at me, holding his hands out.

“Well, look at you! My lovely, scarred, hah!, nursie taking care of, hee, big bad Killer Croc. Guess I shoulda known you’d have a gentle touch.”

He sniggers, walking closer as Croc mutters behind me, “Your scent twists with his, cherie. You’re twined around him like a vine, but he doesn’t cause the madness.” I stare at him as he taps his nose. “I smell everything.” 

Joker pulls me into his side and winks at Croc. “Satisfied, big guy? Quinn take, HA!, good care of you?” 

Croc pushes himself gingerly off the boxes and begins limping away, holding his tail in one hand. I notice the burn salve is tucked into his jeans pocket. He looks over his shoulder to nod. “Thanks for the help. I’ll be ready for the job.” He closes the door behind himself and lumbers away.

 

I feel...different after that, after stitching up Croc. It’s been a while since I’ve done something that was good, not neutral or evil. It’s like I’ve had fog in my head that’s beginning to clear away. I’m uneasy and hopeful at the same time, wishing for something. What it is, I don’t know.


	3. Wash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Killed off Clint in this chapter.

Scarecrow comes around for the first time since he’d given me the weird toxin. There’s a bandage around his wrist, but otherwise he looks normal, wearing a slightly rumpled suit, glasses askew. When he walks in he glances at me, using a long finger to push them back into place.

“Joker. What did you call me for?” Scarecrow’s stiff and uncomfortable, shoulders hunched. I wonder what Joker had done to him as Scarecrow shifts in his seat and winces. It must’ve been painful. The thought makes me smile. 

“Scarecrow, old buddy, ha!, I _need_ some help of the chemical sort,” Joker chirps, hands gripping his seat as he rocks forward. 

“Get Ivy then,” Scarecrow says flatly, eyes darting from the door to Joker’s face and back. Joker shakes his head like a dog, hair falling over his eyes. 

“Nope, ha, nope. _Sorry_. Ivy is a tad, hoo, bit mad at _me_ right now.” He winks and stage whispers, “I stepped, ah, on just a few of her pretty plants. Oops!”

Scarecrow’s mouth twists with distaste as he leans away from Joker. “I have my own work, Joker. Use someone else.”

The amusement drops from Joker’s face, tongue darting out to lick at his scars. I inch away from him, not wanting to be caught in the line of fire. “You, er, _don’t_ have a _choice_ , Crane. We all, HA, know who the top dog in this city is. ME. So, uh, you’d better goddamn _listen_ , or do I have to, haha, teach you another lesson?” 

Joker waggles his eyebrows at Scarecrow, who flinches. He closes his hands into fists at his sides and nods sharply. “Fine. What do you need?” Joker’s grin reappears and he pulls me against him, hand curling over the tattoo on my neck. 

It’s a familiar and comforting gesture, a reminder that I have someone to belong to. I smile, relaxing into him. “I _need_ something to put a, haha, bunch of people to sleep. Quickly. Doesn’t matter if it kills a few of, hoo, a few of them, either.”  
He puts his elbows on his knees, hand cupping his chin. “And I want it, ha!, by tomorrow.” 

“You’ll have it.” Scarecrow stands quickly and strides out without a goodbye. 

Joker tugs me onto his lap, running his hands under my shirt and up my scarred spine. “I think, ha, Quinn, that it’s time to _celebrate_.”

 

Joker leaves for his job with Killer Croc after that and returns bleeding. I’m perched in front of the TV, eyes on the news. It’s centered on the party Joker had crashed, cameras moving from the faces of shocked rich people to blurry security footage of Joker and Killer Croc.   
Batman had shown up, a hulking black figure that made my teeth clench, but he didn’t catch them. I jump and turn when the door slams open. Joker’s leaning against it, breathing heavily. Blood leaks between his fingers where they grip his ribs.

He grins at me with bloody teeth and winks. “Hey, Quinn. Help, ha, help a guy out?” I hurry over and put an arm around his waist, leading him to the couch. “You did a good job, ah, on Croc. Think, hoo, you can stitch _me_ up now?” 

“Yeah. I can do that.” Joker shrugs his jacket off and unbuttons his shirt as I get the trunk that holds all his stuff. He opens it himself, not allowing me to see inside. I catch the needle and thread he tosses at me and examine his wounds.   
They only appear to be on his chest, which is pale as always, covered with scars and old bruises I can ignore. The gaping cuts across his right side matter more. It isn’t life threatening yet, but there’s a lot of blood.  
As I go to work I realize that Joker’s blood is different. Thicker, almost congealed, and too dark. Nearly black, with no red tint. I pause, needle pricking his skin. “Joker?” 

He sighs, letting his head fall back. “Don’t fucking pussy out on me now, Quinnie.” 

“No, it’s not that, it’s just...your blood is wrong.”

He laughs hard enough to make the cuts bleed worse, and I frown. “ _Quinn. Quinnie_. Don’t, uh, worry about it. There’s, ha, so many chemicals in me I’m practically, hoo, practically Poison Ivy.” Joker narrows his eyes at me in warning. “Now stitch me up.” Nodding, I dig the needle into his skin. He just laughs.

 

When I finally tie off the last stitch on Joker’s chest, he leans down to kiss my forehead, scarred lips rough against my skin. It’s a confusing and uncharacteristically gentle gesture, and I look up with narrowed eyes. His hand cups the back of my neck, thumb ghosting over my tattoo. 

“Look at, ha, you, my bloody, broken angel,” he murmurs, grinning loosely at me. “So goddamn _pretty_ , I just wanna destroy you.” He bends down to kiss my scars, rubbing his face against mine. I smile, enjoying the attention. I’m special. I’m his.   
“Hey, Quinnie, do you, ha, what do you think about more, oh, tattoos?” I think of the time, six years before, when he spoke of covering me in tattoos, making my body a piece of art. 

“I’d like that, yeah.” I should be expecting it, but I still jump when he sprays gas in my face and the world goes black. 

 

I wake up on the couch, with the familiar murmur of TV in the background. I yawn and stretch, forcing myself to croak, “Joker?”

“Hiya, Quinn.” I shift onto my side, stopping when pain runs through my fingers. They’ve healed, so the pain is new. 

“What’d you do to my hand?” I crack my eyes open and flex my fingers until my vision stop blurring. He’s tattooed my fingers with card symbols. Hearts, clovers, spades, and diamonds cover each finger of my right hand.   
The effect is kind of mesmerizing, like an optical illusion. I glance up at Joker and smile. “This looks nice. Why’d you get it for me?” 

He grins lazily, producing a deck of cards out of nowhere. He fans them out and begins shuffling, better than any Vegas professional. “Because I like cards, Quinn. I, haha, like to _gamble_.”   
He takes a card from the deck and holds it between two fingers. A Joker card. He smiles and offers it to me. “This is _your_ card.”

I laugh and take it from him, careful with my sore hand. “Thank you.” He settles next to me on the couch, looking more relaxed than I’ve seen him in a while. Hands on his thighs, head bowed, almost completely still.  
His eyes are on me, but they’re calm, a little sleepy. I wonder why. “Why do I have to be unconscious to get tattooed?” He shrugs, not smirking like usual. I have the feeling his answer was honest. 

“It’s, ha, easier to bring you where I, er, want to go when you’re, hoo, sleeping. And, uh, can’t let you know all my secrets.”

I blow idly at the tattoos on my fingertips and nod. “Alright.” 

He nods slowly and pats my head. “Good girl, Quinn.” I move to sit on the floor, between his feet. The news is on some boring weather report by then, so I rest my head against his knee. 

“How’d it go with Killer Croc?”

He chuckles, running his nails through my short hair. “Good enough, ah, besides Batsy. Got some, ha, pretty new stones. Paid Croc with two emeralds and a sapphire. Dunno what he wants them for. Croc, ah, doesn’t use money.” 

“Did you use Scarecrow’s toxin yet?” 

He moves my head back to look up at him. He’s smirking. “Have you, ha!, heard of a bunch of _really_ sleepy people lately, ha, hmm?” I shake my head no as he lets me go. “There’s your answer.”

 

A week after that, I meet Ra’s Al Ghul for the first time. I’m out with Joker, watching him dismember what had once been a henchman. It doesn’t bother me anymore. Blood and guts have become commonplace.  
I watch blankly as he runs a hand across what remains of the man’s torso. “Shoulda, ha!, listened to _me_ , Chuckles,” he mutters to himself, running a blood slicked hand through his hair.   
There’s the whisper of movement behind me and I turn to face a stranger. The man is tall and elegantly thin, with smooth olive skin and greased back black hair. His eyes are dark and intense over a hooked nose, reminding me of a hawk. I feel like prey.

When he notices me watching the man turns aristocratic, giving me a snake’s smile and bowing low. “Greetings.”

I nod nervously as Joker pauses at his work. “Ra’s. I wasn’t aware, ha!, that you were in Gotham.” I’ve never heard of the man before, but I can tell instantly that he’s important.

There’s an air of menace around him, of something cold and dangerous masked by politeness. “Indeed. I returned some days ago on business.”

Joker’s eyes flick to several places around the abandoned factory we’re in before he says, “I see you’ve, ha, brought guests.”

Ra’s nods regally, a hint of annoyance in his face. “You’re observant as always, Joker. Few could spot my guards when they’re attempting to hide.

” Joker just grins and stands, rocking back on his heels. “Yeah. So, uh, what do ya want? I mean, ha, is this a friendly visit?”

Ra’s raises an eyebrow. “I don’t want anything from you, Joker. This meeting was not intentional.”   
Joker nods cheerily and kneels over the henchman again, beginning to saw through the man’s femur. Ra’s lip curls just a hair before the mask returns. He moves closer to take my hand and kiss it. I flush and snatch my hand back, but he just smiles.   
“I’m afraid we haven’t been introduced. My name is Ra’s Al Ghul.” 

“Quinn,” I say softly, trying to keep the roughness from my voice. 

“A relation of Harley Quinn?” I clench a fist and shake my head. “No. She’s dead.” 

“Pity,” he says carelessly. I’m trying to decide what his accent is. Definitely not American, it smooths over the vowels and lingers on syllables. I wonder how old he is.  
Ra’s looks to be in his thirties, but something about him seems much older. He tugs idly at his pristine, fitted jacket and gives a nod to someone in the shadows. I tense, looking over my shoulder, but nothing happens.   
Joker finishes and comes to stand next to me, slipping an arm around my waist. I notice his bloody hands leaving stains on my shirt but ignore it. “I’m afraid I must go,” Ra’s murmurs, pulling on a pair of gloves. “It was a pleasure to see you again, Joker, and to make your acquaintance, Quinn.”

He nods at both of us and turns quickly enough to send the tails of his jacket swirling. With a whisper of expensive shoes, Ra’s is gone. Joker lets go to nudge my side. “You, ah, like your new friend? He’s _foreign_.”

I giggle and lean into him. “He seems very proper.”

Joker laughs and kisses my scars. “You, ha, got that right, Quinn.” He glances from side to side, sniffing like a dog, then grins down at me. I move with him as he crowds me up against a wall, hands going to my hips.   
He rubs his scars against my neck and chuckles. “Gonna _mark_ you UP, Quinnie, ha!, leave s’more pretty _scars_.” I splay my hands across his back, able to feel the warmth of his skin. Joker always seems to be several degrees above normal.  
“Mine mine _mine_ , you’re _mine_ , I, ha, I took everything,” he hisses against my neck, biting hard enough to break the skin. I yelp and wrap a hand in his hair.   
He laughs again while he slips his hands under my shirt, nails scratching. He fucks me against the wall as the dismembered man’s blood cool.

 

I see Ra’s Al Ghul again the next day. I’ve taken to wandering the city when Joker isn’t around. I’ve spent enough time languishing in a room. Joker’s led me through so many secret routes that I can travel nearly unseen.   
I’m taking a rest, sitting against a brick wall tossing my knife from hand to hand, when I hear voices. The deep rumble of a man and the lighter, musical voice of a woman. I’m in one of the more hidden places. People aren’t supposed to be around.  
I hold tight to the hilt of my knife and stand as Ra’s Al Ghul and a woman step into view. He’s smiling slightly, head tilting towards her. She grins and lays a hand on his arm, saying something in a language I don’t recognize.  
She moves easily, confident with her body. She looks strong. And beautiful, exotic and powerful like a panther. Tall, slender, with muscles easing into curves. Her eyes are large and heavy-lidded, the green color striking against her olive skin. Long, straight black hair hangs to her waist.   
She wears cargo pants and a blank tank top with heavy army boots. I sense she’s dangerous, a coiled up viper like Ra’s Al Ghul. They both stop when they see me.

Ra’s has his usual cultured mask up, but her lip curls with distaste. “What are you?” she asks. I resist the urge to hurl a knife at her pretty, pretty face and realize I’m becoming more like Joker. The thought pleases me.

“This is Quinn, daughter. One of Joker’s...people,” Ra’s says softly, giving her a stern look. “How delightful to see you again, Quinn. Let me introduce my daughter, Talia.” I nod at her, noticing her eyes linger uncomfortably on my scars. Good. Ra’s is already looking past me, disinterested.   
He says something in a foreign language to Talia, waving a hand. She nods and waits as he steps away, then bows low. “I have urgent business, Quinn, but please, give my best regards to the Joker.” 

“I will.” Talia looks momentarily taken aback by my ugly, rough voice, but she recovers quickly. Her full lips flatten and she gives me a curt nod.

“Farewell, Quinn.” Her English has the same cultured accent as her father’s, and I wonder again where they’re from. Ra’s Al Ghul melts into the shadows with Talia close behind. They make almost no sound. I sag against a wall when they’re gone, deciding I prefer regular people to snobs like them.

I make my way back to the Joker and find him crouched in a corner, muttering to himself. He keeps running a hand through his hair, exposing the roots where the green is gone. His men are nervous, playing poker with trembling hands. I know why as soon as I take a step closer.   
The room reeks of blood. One of his men is sprawled near a pile of boxes, a knife stuck in his throat. I head over to Joker and put a hand on his shoulder. He cracks his neck, muscles bunching under my fingers, and turns. “Hiya, Quinn. Just, ha, taking care of something.” He shuffles back so I can see the papers spread before him. 

They’re mostly just numbers, scratched out equations I can’t make head or tail of. And photos of someone, a man with dark hair, getting into a car, sitting at a restaurant, smiling with his arm around a woman. I decide not to ask. His familiar, messy scrawl is all over, thick and pressed down too hard.   
I look over a neatly drawn diagram for a machine and smile to myself. I sometimes forget he’s a genius. The man can be so smart it’s frightening. Well, frightening in a different way than usual. He leans into my legs and looks up at me. I smile fondly, putting a hand on his hair.   
It’s nice when he’s like this, almost normal. “I’m hungry.” 

“Alright, ha, let’s get something,” he says, standing up and brushing his knees off. “Can’t let my girl go hungry.” I grin and lean against him as he slips his hand into mine. His skin is smudged with ink and blood.   
I wonder what’s brought this kindness on as he holds a door open for me and bows. “The kitchen, haha, my lady. Let’s, ah, get something to eat.” I nod at him and step inside. I’m half expecting something awful to jump out at me, maybe Scarecrow with his needles, but the kitchen is quiet.  
And filthy, as usual. Joker grabs two slices of pizza from the counter and tosses one at me. “Here ya go, Quinn. Practically, hoo!, gourmet.” I take it and eat, slower than he does.   
Joker always eats like he’s starving, or expecting someone to steal it from him. “Don’t like having Ra’s around,” he mutters, so soft I’m not sure he’s actually speaking to me. I lift my head anyway, making a questioning noise.  
His eyes dart to me and back, mouth twitching. “Ra’s is clever, Quinn. And _old_.” He wrinkles his nose, so childish I have to laugh. He grins quickly at me before narrowing his eyes.   
“Ra’s likes everything _ordered_ , all, haha, perfect and in place and I don’t _LIKE THIS_. Don’t want, ah, don’t want him, ha, around to MESS everything up.” 

“How old is Ra’s?” I asks curiously, recalling his face. Ra’s doesn’t look older than his mid-thirties, which is odd, because his daughter appears only slightly younger. And if he’s in his thirties, he’ll only be older than Joker by a few years, which makes it strange for him to call Ra’s old. 

“Ah, he’s got _tricks_ , Quinn, ancient things that, hoo, keep ‘im _going_. Like a fuckin’ machine.” I shrug and drop the subject.

 

“Please, I’m sorry!” The Joker is angry, tugging me by the hair through the base. I whine and try to pull away, but his grip just tightens. I tripped and spilled coffee over some papers, plans of his now soggy and ruined.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please!” 

“Shut, ha, _up_ , Quinnie,” he mutters, shoving me into the kitchen. The men there quickly scurry out, casting anxious backward glances at Joker. “ _Stupid_ Quinnie.” I wait, trapped, as he flicks the stove on. He’s standing in front of the only exit.

I look from the stove and back to him. “ _Please_.” He grins before grabbing my left wrist to hold my hand over the stove top. I can feel the heat already as I squirm uselessly.

“Stay _still_ ,” he orders, using his hips to pin me against the edge of the stove. I turn my face into Joker’s shoulder as he forces my hand down onto the burner. There’s a moment of nothing before the pain sets in, and I howl into his jacket.

After a few seconds he releases my wrist and steps back, chuckling. I slump against the counter, cradling my hand. I don’t dare look at it yet. “It hurts,” I sob, looking up at Joker. 

There’s no pity in his eyes. “Whatever. Don’t mess up my plans again,” he says, leaving the room.

 

I run out of the base, crying. I have no idea where I am by the time I collapse against a brick wall, sliding to the ground as I rock my hand against my chest. The skin is raw and red, dotted with sickly yellow blisters. The detached part in the back of my head begins reciting what I should do to take care of it. 

Apply water, use bandages... Something lands in front of me with a whoosh. I look into Batman’s blue eyes and gasp, scurrying back without thinking of my hand. It brushes painfully against brick, and I yelp, holding it close again. 

“Please go away, just go away,” I hiccup, looking away from him.

“Quinn. I’m not going to hurt you, Quinn. Relax.” I peek out at him. He’s crouched in front of me, hands empty at his sides, cape pooled at his feet like water. There’s something akin to pity in his eyes. “I won’t hurt you, Quinn. I promise.” 

I loosen my shoulders and face him. “H-Hi, Batman. Long time no, no see, huh?”

He just sighs and holds out a hand, palm up. “What happened to your hand, Quinn? Can I see it?” 

For some reason I decide to trust him, so I put out my hand. “Please don’t hurt me.” He examines my palm, turning it over before reaching for his belt. 

I snatch my hand back and he grimaces. “I’m just getting burn salve.” I let him take my hand again. His gloves are rough against my skin. He sprays something foamy on my palm that makes the pain go away instantly, then bandages me up. “See? I didn’t hurt you, Quinn.” 

“Th-Thank you. Please don’t arrest me.” 

He hesitates before nodding. “Alright, I won’t. What happened?”

I shrug and turn away from him. “It’s not your job to help me, Batman.” 

“It’s my job to help everyone, no matter what they’ve done.” 

I smile for the first time. “You’re such a typical superhero.”

Batman’s eyes don’t dart to my scars, stretched by my smile. It’s like how Joker sees me, only me. “I know.” 

Batman stands, keeping an eye on me. “You should get away from the Joker, Quinn, or you’ll end up like Harley.” He’s off before I can answer, although I’m not sure what I want to say.

 

Joker’s all smiles when I return, acting like he doesn’t notice my bandaged hand. “Quinnie...Quinn, c’mere. I have, ha, something to show you.” I make my way towards him, ignoring my anxiety. Joker rolls his shoulders before turning to look at me.  
His chin and hands are spotted with blood. “Quinn, you’re, ah, you’re a good little nursie, right?” 

I nod slowly, watching his eyes, but there’s only laughter and the usual cruel, cunning glint. “Yeah...I guess.”

“Good, then, haha, get in there.” He motions towards one of the rooms off the main part of the base, where the men sleep in groups. I’ve never been in there, so I look sideways at him. 

“In there?” 

“Yep!” He grins and shoves me closer. I shrug and head back inside, followed by his, “Stitch him up, Quinnie!”

The men’s room is disgusting, filled with trash and old food. They sleep on dirty mattresses spotted with filth. I wrinkle my nose at the smell and head towards the mattress that holds the injured man. He’s white and burly, covered in scars and tattoos.  
Once I would’ve been terrified of him, but now he’s just another henchman, weakened further by his wounds. His hand clutches tightly at his stomach, doing nothing to stop the blood that leaks through.   
A First Aid kit rests by his side. I ignore it, seeing immediately that there’s nothing to do for him. The man is dying. I turn to go, to tell Joker this is a lost cause, when the man grabs my ankle. His eyes are glazed.

“Please...” I sit down despite myself, putting a hand on his head. 

If I’m kind here, no one will see to hold it against me, so I begin speaking. “What’s your name?” 

“Giggle,” he rasps, than shakes his head. 

“Clint.” 

The smell of blood gets stronger each second. “Hi, Clint. What happened?” 

“Penguin. His umbrella, the one with the spikes...got me.”

“I see.” Clint, the first henchman whose real name I know, looks at me like I’m everything. I wonder if he’d ever been one of the men who jeered at me. It doesn’t matter now.

“Am I gonna be okay?”

I decide lying is best here, and nod. “Yes. Yes, of course.” 

He gives me a half-hearted grin. “I’m dead, then. Shit.”

“I’m sorry, Clint.” He nods tightly and goes quiet. There are no speeches, no heartfelt last words, just his breath slipping away as the pool of blood beneath him gets larger. When he dies, I begin crying, the first time I’ve cried over a death since my father’s.

 

I refuse sex to Joker for the first time that night. He reaches over and cups my tits, but I shrug him away, so he sits back with an annoyed sigh. Joker is a lot of awful, demented, evil things, but he doesn’t rape. “We’re visiting Ivy tomorrow,” he grunts instead, rolling over. I nod into the grimy pillow and sleep.

 

He wakes me by cackling in my ear. I wince, roll over onto my bad hand, and hold back a scream. Batman’s salve had helped, but the burn is still fresh. “Bit of pain there, Quinnie?” I shrug and sit up, pulling a shirt over my shoulders.  
I know I smell terrible. It’s been a while since I showered, used deodorant even. I don’t care. “Hurry up. Hurry _up_ , Quinn. Ivy is waiting,” he says, drawing the words out. 

“I’m done,” I tell him, moving towards the door. He stops me by throwing a knife that hits, quivering, right in front of my nose. 

“ _Wait_. I want, ah, no shenanigans with _Ivy_ , haha, okay, Quinn?” I nod, take the knife from the door, and slip it into my pocket. Ivy’s living in a different place than I remember. A small shed behind one of Gotham’s uglier apartment buildings.  
There are plants all over it. Joker grabs me roughly by the arm as we get close. “Stay quiet, ah, now. _Shh_.” “Kay.” She opens the door for us, wearing a loose orange t-shirt that reaches her thighs. It looks odd on her.

“ _Joker_. Quinn!” Her voice switches tones so suddenly I flinch. She takes my wrist, tugging me inside to leave the Joker alone. Her eyes flare green as she smiles, then glances past me at Joker. I understand then. She doesn’t give a damn about me.

She just wants to annoy Joker. So I grin at her, feeling the stretch in my scars. Joker elbows me aside to violently shake her hand, smirking when she winces. “Ivy, Ivy, haha, sooo happy to see you, aha, again. Really puts a _smile_ on my face.”   
She just grunts and turns, walking off. We follow. Joker and Ivy take the only two chairs in the room, which is covered in vines. I sit by his feet, legs curled under me. The soft rustle of plants is unsettling. “Do you have what I _want_ , Ivy?”

She nods and produces a small vial filled with yellow spores. “Here. Now you owe me a favor.”

“Yep.” Joker tugs me up by the hair and bows to Ivy. “See you, ha, later.” I follow him as he skips out the door.

 

When we get outside he shoves me to the ground. It skins my knees and makes me yelp. “Fuckin’ looking at Ivy, Quinn, my Quinn, you’re, ha, mine! _Don’t_ look at Ivy!” 

Something familiar and dark rises up in my chest, choking. “ _Stop_.” My knees sting and my hand is throbbing and my scabbing over back is stretched and I _hate_ him. I tug my arm out from his hand and run off. He doesn’t follow.   
I calm down eventually, feel the fear come. Joker will be so angry, he’ll carve me open for good. I can hear the city moving around me, the honking of cars, raised voices. I feel very, very small. Joker could’ve killed me right then and nobody would notice.   
It kind of sucks, but I shrug inwardly and sit with my back against the wall. The ground under my feet is damp and slightly squishy, but I’ve had worse. There’s the sound of footsteps as someone sprint past me. I catch a blur of curves and black leather before she leaps onto the steps above me with a hiss. 

Shortly after, two men skid to a stop in front of me. They’re holding guns. That would’ve scared me, once. The thought is odd. The men look at me, look away, then turn to stare. “What the fuck’re you?” one of them asks. He’s swarthy and thin, wearing a trench coat. 

I grin at them, feeling my scars stretch grotesquely. “Quinn. I’m Quinn. And I’m waiting for the Joker to come back.” Their faces contort and they step away from me, then turn to run. I look up at the fire escape, feeling badass for once. “Catwoman?” 

There’s a soft thump as she drops to the ground near me. “Hey there. I remember you.” I smile and nod. She’s as beautiful as I remember, all curves and half-smiles. The heroine of the Narrows. “Thanks for the help back there.” 

“You’ve helped me before.”

Her eyes get very sad. “Not enough.”

I shrug and use the hand she offers to stand up. “How was Arkham?”

I shrug again, avoiding her slanted green eyes. “They usually just stick me in Blackgate, when they can catch me,” she mentions, eyes lingering on my skinned knees, the burns on my fingers. “You leave yet?” 

I don’t have to ask who she meant. “No.” 

“I figured.” She brushes dark hair away from her face and gives me a soft smile. “Maybe we’ll meet up again, sometime.”

“Maybe.” I know that if Joker finds out about this, he’ll kill me. Painfully. 

“I’ve gotta go. Be careful.” I nod and watch her leave.

 

Joker slaps me around for a while when I return. To be honest, I don’t really care. I’m just happy to be inside, where it’s warm and dry. It had started raining when I was halfway back to base. My nose starts bleeding when Joker pushes my face against the doorframe.  
Blood mingles with water and drips into my mouth. I curl into myself, away from Joker, and wonder idly if Batman is out on patrol, cold and shivering. Or maybe he has a gadget to protect against that. Joker always goes on long rants about Batman and his gadgets.   
He thinks the man is some rich guy with a complex, which I privately think is stupid. I don’t really care what Batman is, as long as he doesn’t catch me. “You little _bitch_ ,” Joker hisses, long fingers wrapped around my throat. “Don’t run, ha, away like that again or I’ll, ah, carve you a bigger grin.” 

“Don’t care,” I mumble, too many hits to the head making me say dumb things. Joker’s smile widens, eyes lighting up as he spots the opportunity to cause more pain. 

“You don’t _care_ , Quinnie? You don’t care if I make you bleed, haha, make you scream?” 

I spit out a shard of tooth and shake my head. “Sorry, so...so sorry, didn’t mean it.” Joker slashes at me with a knife, opening a large cut across my cheek. I yelp, jumping away, and fall back. The wrist on my burned hand breaks with an audible crack.

The henchmen around us wince, though they’d been watching dispassionately before that. When I shriek with pain, Joker laughs and kicks at me. “Stupid, ha, Quinnie!” He strolls away, tossing his knife into the air.   
I have a sudden flashback to the days when he called me beautiful, showed me the true Gotham, even rocked me to sleep once. Those days are gone now, gone as soon as he ensnared me. I mean nothing to him. And so he means nothing to me.

“I _hate_ you,” I growl, for the first time actually meaning it. Joker just turns around to wink. I leave once he disappears from view. I don’t take anything with me except for the clothes on my back and a knife Joker had given me.   
I’m in shock from the pain as I run through the streets of Gotham. The Bat Signal is high in the sky, overwhelming the moon. I head towards it, cradling my broken hand.

 

It’s not difficult to find Batman. I just follow the sound of people yelling. When I find the large, brightly lit street where Batman is fighting Penguin, I sit on the curb and wait. Penguin is defeated, put in handcuffs, and led away squawking.   
I go up to Batman and tug on his cape like a small child. The fabric is heavy and rough on my fingertips. He turns around to watch me with impassive eyes. It’s been a long time since he viewed me as the innocent kidnapping victim.  
I wonder if he considers me one of his failures. I had hoped Batman would save me, once. This is his second chance. “Help me, Batman.” The people around me are ignoring us, unable to see my face. 

“What do you want, Quinn?” 

“I’m leaving the Joker. I need your help to run before he finds me. I can’t let him find me.” Batman inclines his head, putting a hand on my shoulder and steering me into the Batmobile. When the door closes over our heads and I relax into the leather seat, better than anything I’ve ever sat on, and realize that for the first time in years the voices are gone.

 

Batman blindfolds me and drives to a cave filled with technology, where he sits me down in front of a computer monitor. Batman sits across from me, watchful. “You can’t stay with me,” he says slowly. “I don’t trust you. And you’re insane.” 

I nod, hugging my knees. The cave is cold and I’m scared, beginning to realize just what it was I’ve done. “I...I don’t want to stay with you. I just want to be safe.” I look up at him, feeling tears streak my face. “Joker took everything from me! Who I was, what I could have been. I never got a chance to be anything but his. He kept me warped around him until I was nothing.”

Batman’s mouth softens. “I’m sorry, Quinn. I should’ve found you earlier, when he took you.”

“It doesn’t matter now.” I don’t tell him about the men I killed. We’re tense enough as it is. 

“I can get you away from here, but it’s going to be far, and you’ll have to work hard.” 

“I will.”

“I’ll ask Talia. She’s always got some humanitarian project going on.” I start, surprised that he knows her. I understand when she answers his call, calling him Beloved and batting her eyelashes. She’s beautiful, but not like Catwoman, who I wish I could say goodbye to. 

Talia al Ghul starts talking to Batman in a foreign language. He turns to me eventually, almost smiling.   
“There’s an outpost in Haiti that could use you. I’ve heard that you have some skill in medicine.” I just nod. The room is blurring at the edges. I collapse off the stool and into Batman’s arms.  
When I wake up I’ve been bandaged and burn salved and generally fixed. It’s obvious Batman wants me out of the city quickly. He gives me some clothes, lets me keep the knife Joker gave me. I’m brought to a helicopter and bundled inside.   
Talia al Ghul sits across from me. She blows a kiss at Batman. I lean over to look at him. He’s grinning, suddenly a little less scary. The helicopter takes off with a whir of blades.

 

I sleep for most of the way there, from a mix of painkillers and relief. Someone will take care of me, really take care of me, for the first time since Dad died. I wake up an hour before we arrive to find Talia staring at me. She’s holding a pistol in her lap.   
I’m suddenly afraid that she’s decided to get rid of me, but I stay still, trained after so long with the Joker. Yelling will get me nowhere. But she hands the gun over to me, barrel up.   
If I pull the trigger now, the bullet will pierce the roof, possibly causing us to crash and burn. The idea is mildly tempting, but I chase it off, holding the madness at bay. “Take this, Quinn. In case he comes for you.”

Her voice is gentle, and I see kindness in her eyes for the first time. I nod. “Thank you.” We touch down near a medium sized town, where I’m left with medical supplies and a trained doctor.   
The work is immediate and busy. The people call me the smiling woman and don’t bother asking me about my scars. They’re just thankful for someone to patch me up, someone who looks like them. I’m happy, content to help people.   
There’s still the gun beside my bed, though, a knife in my pocket, because I know Joker’s gonna come for me one day. Sometimes I imagine I can hear his laughter, quiet in the darkness. I throw myself into medicine during those times, until I can forget about him. I do good work and I’ve left Gotham behind.

 

I’ve been _looking_ for her. My Quinnie, pretty scarred Quinnie, ha!, she was _taken_ , Quinnie ran, she ran like a scared bunny and I can’t, I can’t have that. I, ha, I look for the woman with the smile, lovely scarred smile on my Quinnie, MINE! She’s been _hidden_ , somewhere poor, empty people with empty smiles, my _favorite_. Feels, ha, like home. I, ah, ask for the scarred, haha, lady and get _answers_ , leads to Quinnie. She’s, haha, a nursie now, all beloved, my Quinnie is _special_. Thinks she’s, she’s safe, but I’m gonna _find her_. And she’ll, ha, never ever leave me again.


End file.
